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It was raining. 

As of late, the cold wet stuff fell without cease. Mu Qing narrowed his eyes as he watched water drip into puddles, and form small rivers outside of his makeshift tent. 

He’d always hated the rain, ever since he was young. He hated the feeling of wet hair and wet clothes sticking to his skin, like the sugary syrup of a sweet sticking disgustingly to one’s fingers. And then there was the mud. The rain would fall and always , there would be mud. The dirty, stinking stuff always took weeks to remove from his priceless black leather boots. 

He knew, because he’d been caught in it plenty of times over the course of his eight-century lifetime. Rather than give the unsavory task of cleaning them to his subordinates, Mu Qing insisted upon cleaning them himself. Each and every space between the folds of the leather needed to be scrubbed clean, and Mu Qing trusted only his own ability to find all those spaces. 

Anyways, with a glance at the large pile of mud directly in front of his tent, Mu Qing knew that he’d have to find the time to clean the beautiful black boots he had on now. He’d managed to find this pair last week, when he’d  been tasked with joining the small patrol of heavenly officials that scouted the ruins of the destroyed Heavenly Capitol. He’d been unable to part with them ever since, taking them off only at night to sleep. He’d grown used to never leaving his bed due to his injuries for the past few weeks, so finally feeling well enough to join that patrol had been a welcome change of scenery from the inside of the infirmary. Or, at least, the tents that had been set up as a temporary infirmary. 

Though the tent he’d since moved into didn’t look much different, he’d decorated the space to the best of his ability. Certain tapestries he’d managed to recover from the wreckage of his palace were hung here and there. Books, some in extraordinarily good condition and some half-burnt to a crisp, were piled high on his low-set table. 

He hadn't even had the time to skim them, though—around the haphazard camp that was temporarily the Heavenly Capitol, there was always something to be doing; they had a meeting nearly everyday. Checking in with his mortal believer base was likewise a time consuming task for Mu Qing. Once he’d found at least some officials from his palace (he didn’t like to think about what had happened to the ones he couldn’t find), he had sent them out to check in on all major Xuan Zhen temples in the southwest. He’d then get tons of reports to sort through, which occasionally kept him up well into the early hours of the morning. 

In short, there wasn’t time to dally. Which meant that there certainly wouldn’t be time for cleaning boots. At least, there wouldn’t be time to clean them as thoroughly as Mu Qing preferred. 

He heaved a small sigh. He couldn’t stay in his tent forever. Eventually, he had to step outside and join a meeting between the martial gods being held that day. Although ‘joining’ only meant vaguely paying attention and providing the occasional sarcastic comment, Mu Qing still needed to show face. 

The reasoning behind ‘showing face’ had something to do with appearances and one’s outlook—it wouldn’t look good to miss random meetings for no reason (despite how much Mu Qing wanted to some days). And unless one was as socially unaware as the martial god of the west, Quan Yizhen, or as detached as the Rain Master Yushi Huang, then chances were they’d care to upkeep their reputation amongst the other gods. Mu Qing was that type of person—certainly not detached, and if anything too socially aware. So, even if the meeting was dull and boring, he still deemed it important to go. 

Though, of course, attending the meeting naturally meant leaving the dry safety of his tent and venturing into the wet, disgusting muddiness outside. With a sharp, thoughtful, black-eyed gaze he carefully examined the mud pile in front of his tent. On one hand, it wasn’t very high—he could easily step over it in a single stride. On the other hand though, he’d undoubtedly stain both his boots and the hem of his black outer robe with mud. He was not looking forward to that. He almost gagged thinking about the awful squelch sound his boots would make when they made contact with the mud. 

Gathering all the inner strength he could muster when faced with such a perilous task, Mu Qing slowly sat up. He took a few tentative steps toward his tent’s entrance, hesitating when he reached the edge of the mud pile. Taking a deep breath, he carefully raised one foot and took a large step. 

The mud encased itself around Mu Qing’s pristine boot like quick sand, as if it were trying to drag him deeper into its depths. He tried to resist it by lifting his boot slightly and shaking off bits of slick mud, but he soon had to put his boot back down when his precarious position threatened to throw him off balance. He cringed at the noise his boot made when it fell back into the mud—the dreaded squelch. He looked down miserably at his soiled boot. The mud was already beginning to dry, and soon enough, it’d be caked on thick. Mu Qing sighed, feeling rueful. Perhaps it had been a mistake to go outside today, even when considering those oh-so-important social niceties. 

He was already here though, and his boot was already dirty. He might as well see this through. The thought that this was all for a stupid meeting filled him with indignation, but he hadn’t the time to dwell on that. He had to focus all his attention on how best to make his way through that mud pile whilst staining as little of his other boot and the hems of his robes as possible. 

Perhaps he’d better just rush through the mud and have the whole ordeal done with quick, but was that the cleanest method? Cleanliness mattered much more to Mu Qing than haste. Looking ahead, he spied a wet but far less muddy patch of grass a step and a half away. He could definitely make that, with one large step. And then, at least one of his boots wouldn’t be completely ruined. 

With a plan of action, Mu Qing boldly stared ahead at the patch of grass he intended to step onto. He lifted the foot that was still inside the tent and, in one giant step forward, set it down on the clean(-ish) patch of grass. Feeling triumphant over the mud, he lifted his dirty boot and kicked playfully at the mud pile he’d just avoided. But that feeling of glory quickly vanished as his dirty boot slipped dangerously on a thin patch of mud. Failing to regain his balance, Mu Qing lurched forward and almost fell face first into the dirt. 

Almost, because at the last moment, something had caught him and kept him suspended mid-fall. Looking to his left and then his right, he saw two hands lightly gripping his shoulders. In those places, the black fabric of his outer robes bunched up slightly. Mu Qing gulped as his gaze traveled down to the boots of the person who’d caught him mid-fall. They were remarkably similar to his, except for the silver clasps on their fastenings. Those were smaller in comparison to Mu Qing’s, and if one had keen eyes, it could be noted that they were not as shiny. Upon observation, the leather of this person’s boots also appeared different from Mu Qing’s: a thin layer of dust and dirt had settled over their surface, making it obvious that the boots hadn’t been cleaned in some time. For a moment, all Mu Qing could do was stare at those boots, feeling strangely afraid to look up at the face of their owner. 

At last, Mu Qing could not keep pretending to be a statue. He slowly looked up, and caught the sight of a deeply familiar face. His handsome brows were as furrowed as ever and the bow-shape of his mouth was set in an inscrutable line. Feng Xin, the bastard who’d caught him mid-fall, helped Mu Qing straighten up. Annoyed at having just been caught mid-fall by Feng Xin of all fucking people, Mu Qing was about to throw him off when suddenly, Feng Xin swiftly let go of his own accord. Not only that, he took a step back, straightening out his lapels before fixing Mu Qing with an expectant gaze. 

Mu Qing, however, had been severely caught off guard by the rapid succession of the last few seconds. First, Feng Xin had the audacity to catch him mid-fall without any warning, and then he’d rudely let go without any warning. Not that Mu Qing cared that much, his ‘savior’ had been clumsy and awkward and the sooner that moment came to its conclusion, the better. But that didn’t mean being rude was justified—no ‘are you okay’? No comment at all, quickly letting go of Mu Qing as if he were some gross bug? That wasn’t acceptable. 

After unknowingly mirroring Feng Xin by straightening his own lapels, Mu Qing was about to reply. In the next few seconds, however, with an exceedingly awkward nod in Mu Qing’s direction, Feng Xin was off down the muddy path, black boots trampling through the mud with little care. Mu Qing stared at the back of his increasingly small figure in shocked and offended silence. Being nice had never been one of Feng Xin’s virtues, but what was that? Saving Mu Qing from falling face first into the cold, unforgiving dirt had been decent, but the utter lack of manners afterward had been astounding. The way he’d let go—it was as if Feng Xin was afraid of touching Mu Qing for too long, even through layers of thick black cloth. Which was, obviously, nothing short of completely insulting. 

But, whatever. Feng Xin was weird and rude; these were traits Mu Qing was well used to putting up with. What did it matter? The incessant rain was the real issue. 

Mu Qing looked up at the sky, thoroughly dismayed by the image of grey clouds and falling rain that greeted him. He sighed, shaking out his soaked sleeves. At some point in the past five minutes, a chunk of wet hair had fallen from Mu Qing’s half-up-do and had plastered itself to Mu Qing’s face. Glaring at nothing in particular, he took the wet hair by its tips and sent it flying to the back of his head. Small, thinner strands of black hair still clung to some parts of his forehead, and no matter how much or how hard he tried to wipe them off, they’d always either come back or remain stubbornly in place. 

Mu Qing truly, truly hated the rain. He must have some sort of rare curse on him, then, to be in his current situation. Getting out of the constantly rain-soaked camp was a blessing when he could, but not today. Today, he had to attend this stupid martial god meeting. 

For a full minute, all Mu Qing could do was curse up a storm as he stared at the treacherous path ahead of him. Three tents ahead, and then a sharp right, and then another four tents or so would lead him to the main tent where the meeting was being held. No doubt there’d be more mud…Mu Qing quietly grumbled at the thought. Well, best get going. There was a point to which being ‘fashionably late’ became unfashionable , and there was nothing Mu Qing hated more than being deemed ‘unfashionable.’ Well, maybe the rain. And maybe Feng Xin. If he had to say, then it was decidedly the rain he hated more than Feng Xin. One he could try to reason with (in theory), but no matter how much he screamed at the other, the rain would never listen to his complaints. Not that Feng Xin had ever excelled at listening to Mu Qing’s complaints. 

And so, Mu Qing trudged onward. Through the cold, wet rain and pools of mud-water he went. His one clean boot sadly didn’t remain so for long. Soon, it too was covered in mud and grass and droplets of water. He stopped at one point along the trail to try and shake some of the mud off, but it was no use. Sighing in defeat, there was nothing he could do but march forward. 

Eventually, through the treacherous mud and maze of similar looking tents, Mu Qing reached a tall tent whose ‘roof’ seemed to poke the sky. It was pretty much at the center of the makeshift Heavenly Encampment, and was decidedly the tallest of all the tents, though not the largest. The larger tents were reserved for the sick and injured, of which there were still plenty. The largest tent of all was reserved for meetings of prime importance between all heavenly officials, dubbed the temporary Conference Hall. 

Inside this tall tent it was actually rather small, though the high ‘roof’ had been adorned with a light fixture, a feature absent from most other tents. Most tents needed to rely on either one’s own spiritual power for light, or the dim orange glow of a candle. This tent was reserved for smaller meetings between more specialized groups of gods. And, to Mu Qing’s dismay, dumb martial god meetings which dragged him out of the warm comforts of his own tent and into the muddy dregs of the tent-maze. 

He deliberated outside the entrance, trying to make out the shouts coming from inside. He grabbed the pale flap that marked the tent’s entrance, but didn’t go inside. It sounded like two voices…Feng Xin’s was the first he recognized. How could he not? He’d heard that angered tone directed at him plenty of times over the years. It’d honestly be weirder if he didn’t recognize Feng Xin’s voice at this point. The other was lower in pitch, trying to sound unbothered and suave while obviously on edge. Mu Qing assumed the voice must belong to Pei Ming, from the select amount of times he’d talked to the martial god of the north.  

The voices of the two martial gods appeared to be arguing, though about what, Mu Qing had no idea. Probably something stupid, considering who the disembodied voices belonged to. At this point, Mu Qing was debating between going through with whatever fuckery lay beyond this flap and simply bailing. Though, it’d be rather tragic to bail on a meeting he’d dirtied his precious boots for. Besides, though he didn’t have access to the context, the argument raging inside sounded like it’d be fun to witness. 

Deliberating a bit longer, he was able to make out clear words. With a forced calm, he heard Pei Ming say, “Well, Nan Yang, I understand but we’ve had incidents —yes, plural—with the imprisoned ghosts so we’d really better keep the extra patrol of guards stationed there —”

“But that’d be one less patrol on the south side,” Feng Xin argued back, swiftly cutting Pei Ming off. A groan could be heard, followed by Feng Xin continuing with: “There have also been incidents on the south side. People have reported items going missing, including some vital supplies—”

“Misplaced items hardly carry any importance over murderous ghosts, some of which, I should remind you, are on the level of wrath,” came the reply. The bickering continued after that. Mu Qing couldn’t hear the voice of anyone else besides those two; most likely, no one else could get a word in. 

Well, after hearing that exchange, Mu Qing had made up his mind: witnessing the idiotic argument and throwing in the occasional quip sounded like much more fun than trudging back through the mud. Thus, with a dramatic flip of the tent flap, he strode in and announced his presence: “Please, do not stop your bickering on my account. It’s not as if I have anything else to occupy my time with.”

With a flip of his sleeves, he walked leisurely to the far side of a large, elmwood table; the side closest to the tent’s exit. Mu Qing, disregarding the eyes he could feel burning several holes into his fine silk robe, looked this way and that around the tent, pretending like he had all the time in the world. First, his eyes flitted up to the messily strewn about lanterns fixed to the ceiling (the aforementioned ‘light fixture’), brows slightly furrowed in performative disapproval. Then, he moved on to eye the elmwood table, onto which scrolls and papers from past meetings were piled high. Of all the priorities agreed upon by the encamped heavenly officials, cleanliness was low on the list.

Finally, Mu Qing looked up to see three pairs of eyes staring at him with varied expressions: one seeming tired and only vaguely interested, one trying valiantly to disguise obvious annoyance, and the last one…well, Feng Xin’s was surprisingly unreadable. Usually, his emotions were laughably easy to discern, as easy as reading the characters on the page of a book, but not today. Mu Qing could detect lingering anger from his very rudely interrupted argument with Pei Ming, but how he felt about Mu Qing’s presence itself, Mu Qing couldn’t figure out. It didn’t seem like that lingering anger extended to Mu Qing, but at the same time, Mu Qing knew that it would be impossible for Feng Xin to be happy about his presence.  

Deciding that he’d rather not enter a staring contest with the aggravatingly inscrutable Feng Xin, Mu Qing turned his eyes to the only person in the tent who didn’t seem remotely interested in his arrival, Lang Qianqiu. Mu Qing snorted in amusement when he found the martial god of the east fast asleep in his chair, arms crossed and head lolling to the side. Feng Xin and Pei Ming had either been too wrapped up in their match of bickering to notice, or had noticed but were too distracted to care. 

Pei Ming raised a hand, the one not slung in a cast, to his mouth and cleared his throat. “General Xuan Zhen, so good of you to finally arrive,” he greeted, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. Mu Qing nodded, smiling in an exceedingly perfunctory manner. 

“Please, General Pei, no need to be so courteous. You must understand, since this meeting is of prime importance to me, I got here as soon as I found the will within to bother,” he bit back in his usual frostily polite tone, delighting in the dissatisfied huff he received in response. Noting the implication carried by Pei Ming’s rather rude greeting, Mu Qing thought to himself: had the agreed-upon time been one shichen after dawn, or two? Pondering it for a moment longer, he suddenly recalled that he didn’t care. 

With a finger tapping his chin, he looked around, noticing how Feng Xin and Pei Ming, while obviously in the vicinity of chairs, had probably chosen to stand in the midst of their brainless fight. Quan Yizhen, who’d given Mu Qing only a brief glance, was sitting, turned away from the other two in disinterest, and resting his chin on one hand, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d even shown up. Though he no longer looked like a little zongzi, bandages and injuries were still numerous on his person. 

Turning back to the two standing idiots, Mu Qing was surprised to find Feng Xin’s gaze on him. It was quick, and evidently afraid of getting caught, as within a second it vanished. Mu Qing thought that strange, but chose not to dwell on it, remembering what he’d wisely thought to himself earlier: Feng Xin was, as always, weird and rude. 

With an awkward ‘ahem,’ Feng Xin attempted to regain the weak focus of those gathered in the tent (those who were awake , at least). “Right. Well, General, we need to get back to our discussion. Now, if it’s that insane ghost woman—who we all know you have a history with—that you’re most worried about, you can rest easy knowing that her soul has dissipated,” Feng Xin, choosing to verbally ignore Mu Qing entirely, barreled back into the argument from before. Mu Qing obviously took great issue with this, but he also understood that starting a fight with Feng Xin at this moment might not be the best choice. Nobody wanted broken furniture, and besides, the idiot already had his hands full. 

Pei Ming turned back to Feng Xin, his eyes widening slightly but otherwise keeping any commentary he had on that individual Feng Xin had mentioned to himself. “Well…” he began, most likely trying to find the right wording. “As it happens, that is not what I’m concerned about. This has nothing to do with my personal affairs, and, really, Nan Yang, there was no need—”

“Where is Xie Lian?” Mu Qing interrupted, looking around and noticing for the first time his friend’s absence where it shouldn’t be—it was a martial god meeting, after all, and although he’d ascended this time due to his humble scrap collecting, Xie Lian’s presence was still required. That word—friend—sounded strange in Mu Qing’s mind. How long had it been since he’d used it for someone? Had he ever? Mu Qing couldn’t remember. He’d certainly never used it for Taizi Dianxia, Xie Lian, though he couldn’t deny how pleasant it felt to finally be able to. 

Once again, Mu Qing was the subject of multiple stares. He stood, with his hands folded, waiting patiently for an answer. Pei Ming looked beyond exasperated, but before he could speak, Feng Xin surprisingly beat him to it: “He’s away, on a patrol to scout the former ruins of the—the—” suddenly, in the middle of his sentence, he broke off into a fit of violent coughs. Mu Qing, already caught off guard by Feng Xin offering to answer his question, was shocked even further by this abrupt coughing fit. Within seconds, all eyes had turned from Mu Qing to Feng Xin (all except Lang Qianqiu, who, amazingly, remained asleep).

“Nan Yang?” Pei Ming spoke cautiously, an eyebrow raised, extending very little effort into seeming sympathetic. Mu Qing thought to say something as well, but before he could make up his mind, Feng Xin spoke first, having apparently recovered from whatever had just gotten into him: “I’m fine, I’m fine. Anyways, the ruins of the Heavenly Ca—ah—” almost immediately after trying to speak again, he was cut off by another fit of coughing. One was an anomaly, but two was a pattern—could Feng Xin be sick? 

Briefly analyzing his previous behavior and the way he’d been speaking thus far, Mu Qing determined that it wasn’t impossible, but Feng Xin had clearly done a great job hiding it until now. He’d need to study Feng Xin closer to come to a more conclusive answer, which he obviously couldn’t do. How would Mu Qing explain it? It wasn't like Feng Xin would believe it if Mu Qing told him he wanted to help. In any case, Feng Xin’s coughing had finally died down, and based on careful observation, Mu Qing determined that his breathing was still somewhat normal. Perhaps it was just a minor illness. In that case, Mu Qing wouldn’t be helping even if he wanted to. Feng Xin wouldn’t want Mu Qing’s medical assistance even if he were dying, regardless of the fact that Mu Qing’s medical knowledge was quite adept and advanced. 

Deciding he’d better speak before Feng Xin attempted his sentence a third time, Mu Qing quickly cleared his throat and said, “I get it, don’t try and speak again. In fact, based on the sound and intensity of those coughs, it would be best if you could try and speak as little as possible today. Which is good news for the rest of us, because we won’t be missing much.” 

Hopefully, the snarky bit at the end would disguise any sympathy detectable in his tone. It’s not like he was sympathetic—he was just as uncaring as Pei Ming, in fact, he was less than uncaring. At least, he should be. That’s what everyone would expect of Xuan Zhen—disinterest at best and outright malice at worst. Despite the fact that that wasn’t true, it was still most people’s expectation; it was still Feng Xin’s expectation. 

After he finished speaking, Mu Qing kept a cool, indifferent face. Feng Xin, who’d been feeling his forehead (most likely for a fever), looked over at Mu Qing, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it, probably remembering that Mu Qing had just told him not to speak. He stared at Mu Qing a few moments longer, eyes gradually narrowing and brows furrowing when he looked away. He was either angry, or deep in thought—Mu Qing didn’t know which one it was because, on Feng Xin, they both looked the exact fucking same. 

Mu Qing fixed his gaze elsewhere as well, disgruntled by the perplexity of someone who was normally mind-numbingly simple. 

A soft ‘ahem’ alerted him to the presence of Pei Ming, who was eyeing the two of them with a confused expression. 

“Right. Good, uh…evaluation, Xuan Zhen. I quite agree; Nan Yang, you’re evidently in a state unfit to be making important decisions. We’ll adjourn this meeting, for now,” he announced, nodding to emphasize that this was the best course of action. 

Mu Qing nodded in agreement, internally gleeful that he didn’t have to be there a moment longer. He had no great stake in where the extra army was sent. 

Quan Yizhen, who’d been staring off into space and thinking about who knew what, was suddenly brought back to the present at the words ‘we’ll adjourn.’ 

“Are we done?” he asked, as blunt as always. 

Pei Ming gave him a look, seeming to be at a loss. Mu Qing, still put out by Feng Xin’s general weirdness and the fact that he apparently had a cold, simply nodded. With this confirmation, Quan Yizhen, who apparently had much better things to do, was out of the tent in the blink of an eye. 

He was quickly followed by Feng Xin, who raced out of the tent without so much as a glance in Mu Qing’s direction. Not that Mu Qing had been expecting one. But still, wouldn’t it have been nice to send at least one nod towards the only person in the tent who’d expressed concern at his apparent condition? Perhaps Mu Qing was asking too much of Feng Xin. It’s better than it used to be—at least he wasn’t yelling at Mu Qing anymore. But the way he avoided Mu Qing, avoided touching or even acknowledging him, was that really much better? 

The sound of peaceful snoring shook Mu Qing out of his thoughts, causing him to look around and realize that he and the soundly sleeping Lang Qianqiu were the only ones in the tent. For a second, Mu Qing considered leaving him there and going on with his day, but ultimately his sense of decency took over and he lightly tapped the young martial god on the shoulder. It took a few taps before Lang Qianqiu startled awake, looking around with a surprised expression on his face. He then looked at Mu Qing, surprise giving way to confusion. “Is the meeting over?” he asked, as if he had no idea he’d just been asleep for its entirety. Mu Qing nodded once, deeming this act of goodwill good enough, and turned around with a sweep of his great, mud-stained black sleeves. He opened the tent flap and stepped into the rainy gray of outside, feeling thoroughly disappointed as he’d completely forgotten the weather. 

His boots squelched as they made contact with the squishy, wed mud. Mu Qing couldn’t help but cringe at the sound, feeling a strong urge to turn around and dive back into the clean safety of the tent. With a sigh, he struggled through the mud, trying desperately to keep his mind off of the disgusting piles of brown starting to form and build in every crevice of his two boots. Emphasis on trying—Mu Qing’s face had become locked in a permanent expression of horror at the mere thought. 

Apart from the contemptible mud and unwelcome rain, Mu Qing had other problems. Where was he to go now? Despite his sincere wishes to ditch the stupid thing entirely this morning, Mu Qing actually hadn’t planned anything after the meeting. Of course, there was always stuff to do , but nothing Mu Qing himself needed to do. He’d already mended Ruoye, which had gorged itself on his time for quite a few days (time that Mu Qing was more than happy to sacrifice, of course). There were always reports to read, from the deputy officials he’d sent to check in with his temples in the southwest, but those weren’t anything to get excited about. At least mending Ruoye hadn’t been boring. 

Mu Qing paused at the end of the mud path he’d been trekking along, as it branched into several more paths going in different directions (some even muddier). Mu Qing looked at the one to the farthest left, narrowing his eyes as he thought. He then turned to the one farthest right, eyes narrowing even further. With a hand on his chin, he looked back and forth between the two paths, each leading the way to two very different destinations. One led back to his tent, and the other…led somewhere else. The seconds ticked by as he thought, and the rain only came down harder, unrelenting in its personal quest to ruin Mu Qing’s soon-to-be afternoon. 

At last, Mu Qing came to a decision. Perhaps not a sure one, but a decision’s a decision and he had to stick to it. He began walking again, steps weighed down by a strange anxiety as he set off down the path to the farthest right. 

It was no great surprise when the path eventually led him to the front of a decently-sized tent. In terms of width and height, it wasn’t much larger than Xie Lian’s former Puqi Shrine. It was painted in the same dull, neutral tones as all the other tents in the encampment, and from inside a soft glow was being emitted, most likely from candlelight. The tent looked remarkably similar to Mu Qing’s on the outside, but Mu Qing held no doubt that its inside was far messier, though he had never seen it. Well, before now. 

In short, the tent was serving as the temporary residence of another heavenly official. It might’ve seemed insulting to house gods of substantial mortal following in such small residences (by their standards), but it was all they could do in the name of conserving resources. 

Mu Qing stalled outside the tent’s entrance, hands clenching into fists and unclenching as he stared at the small gap in the tent flap. Was he really about to do this? He had no obligation to feel sympathy for the person inside the tent. It’s not like Xie Lian had put him up to this. He didn’t owe it to anybody, least of all the one in the tent, to care. 

And yet. 

And yet, Mu Qing did. For some fucking reason, he did fucking care. He cared enough to walk through ankle- or sometimes even thigh-deep mud to make his way here so that he could offer his assistance. Assistance he was more than capable of giving, even when taking into account his mostly healed injuries. Assistance he wanted to give. 

Thus, without giving himself any more time to overthink it, Mu Qing took a bold step forward and, opening the tent flap, stepped into the tent. 

Inside, smoke from an incense burner curled itself around the space, infusing the air with the pleasantly strong scent of cinnamon. The space was, as Mu Qing had rightfully predicted, messy, with stacks of books and scrolls piled carelessly here and there. Around the tent, it was altogether very dim, with the flickering glow of a few candles providing the tent with its only artificial light source. A very crude stone stovetop sat near the tent’s entrance; its simplicity an utter insult to the literal god who had to temporarily make use of it. Moving his gaze to the back of the tent, Mu Qing saw a mounted bed, piled with silk blankets and a singular stiff pillow at its center. 

The god of this tent lay in that bed, blankets pulled down to his waist revealing a simple white undershirt. A book was being held in one hand, its right half folded over its left, each half about equal in size. The face of the god wasn’t bent down in concentration, however, it was instead looking forward at the uninvited newcomer, confusion plastered on with a hint of annoyance and, as always, those ever furrowed eyebrows. Who else could it be but Feng Xin?

Besides his confusion and subtle annoyance, Feng Xin appeared wary. He eyed Mu Qing, head to toe, before asking in a rather brusque voice, “Why are you here?” He seemed guarded, like he was trying to hide something. 

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. With an unjustifiably confident stance, and both hands lazily covering his hips, he replied, “If you’re trying to hide the fact that you’re obviously ill, you needn’t waste your efforts. You made it abundantly clear back at that stupid meeting, with all that horrendous coughing.” He looked down at Feng Xin with what could be described as derision, but in fact, Mu Qing was trying to study him as best he could from his current distance to gauge the severity of Feng Xin’s condition. 

Feng Xin’s eyebrows knitted even further. He sat up fully, expression turning slightly exasperated. “That’s ridicu—” but before he could continue, he broke out into a fit of coughs, their violent sound rattling through the small space. Unsurprised by this turn of events, Mu Qing’s expression didn’t shift one bit. 

Turning from exasperation to sheepishness, Feng Xin looked down at his lap to avoid Mu Qing’s very direct and scrutinous gaze. “I…” he started, unable to finish. Clearing his throat in a manner that did not sound free of pain, he tried again in a wheezy voice: “I’m not…sick.” He didn’t say anymore, perhaps understanding that, at this point, his flimsy cover-up was a bust.

After a moment of silence he looked up again, and Mu Qing found himself completely incapable of forming the words that would’ve constituted a sarcastic comeback to Feng Xin’s pathetic denial. What he saw was a dreadfully wan face, eyes bleary and slightly unfocused. Large, dark circles had formed underneath, seeming to conjure the image of restless, tossing-and-turning nights. Crust had formed around his eyes and the dark caves of his nostrils. His entire nose seemed to emanate a faint sheen of something wet, as if its poor owner was in an ever-constant state of rhinorrhea. Feng Xin was trying his best to make his expression look severe, but his overall countenance was far too sickly to truly pull that off. Altogether, he painted a most miserable and pitiful picture.

In a turn of events much worse than Feng Xin’s extremely unfortunate cold, Mu Qing actually felt his heart stir at the image of his arch-rival over eight hundred years bedridden with the fucking thing. He felt…bad. It wasn’t the false sort of bad wherein Mu Qing secretly relished the sorry state of his centuries-long adversary, rather, it was something far more devious: genuine sympathy. From what Mu Qing had been able to gather, the illness didn’t seem like anything too serious, but still, its minor misery could be compared to the dull claws of a creature that kept striking: for every bit it was nonlethal, it was just as much annoying. 

And so, staring at the scene before him of someone whom he’d dearly despised for the better part of his immortal life curled up and sick in bed, something within Mu Qing went soft. Some terrible part of him, and what was worse, Mu Qing planned on listening to that part. 

Slowly, he shook his head back and forth, suppressing the urge to poke fun at Feng Xin’s sorry attempt at covering up his cold (much to Mu Qing’s great surprise—since when did he pass up an opportunity to poke fun at Feng Xin?). Taking a brief glance around the tent’s interior, Mu Qing pulled out a small chair from a desk in the corner, setting it by Feng Xin’s bedside before taking a seat himself. He folded his feet rather elegantly, right over left, and shook out his sleeves once before folding his hands in his lap. 

As soon as he’d properly settled himself, Mu Qing finally looked at Feng Xin, who’d been looking at him the entire time with an expression of pure shock painted across his ailing face. He closed the book, apparently without a care given toward his page, and crossed his arms over his chest. Mu Qing snickered at this display of toughness, and its hilarious contrast with Feng Xin’s otherwise feeble appearance. He scooted his (or, really, it was Feng Xin’s) chair closer a few steps, causing Feng Xin to recoil a bit. 

“As I said,” Feng Xin began, his voice a tad less wheezy though still weak. He eyed Mu Qing with a wary expression, bleary eyes flashing with suspicion. “I’m not—”

“What?” Mu Qing rudely interrupted in a completely unbothered tone. “Sick? Are you seriously still trying to keep that up? I can see the remnants of crusted over snot near your nostrils, Feng Xin. We’re past the point of pretending.” The open-mouthed shock Feng Xin gave him as a response, coupled with the immediate rubbing of his nose, nearly sent Mu Qing into a fit of uproarious laughter. 

Leaning forward out of his chair, Mu Qing brought his face within a few cun of Feng Xin’s. Ignoring the stew of shock and horror on the other’s face, Mu Qing reached out a hand to feel his forehead. As he thought, it was warm—fever-warm. It wasn’t the worst fever Mu Qing had ever encountered, but he’d need far more heat than what he was currently working with to try and break it. Moving his hand this way and that across Feng Xin’s forehead and face, Mu Qing determined that the heat was universal across his visage. As he observed, he continued from where he’d stopped before: “Besides. I’m the best doctor you know; surely your pride can stand to admit that. I’m trained in medicine, and I know exactly how to cure the ailment you’re currently suffering from.” He finally retracted his hand, returning it neatly to his lap. “Good news: it’s nonlethal. Or maybe that would be bad news for me? Hmm. Not too sure anymore.” Though he did his best to keep his tone light, his queries were most certainly real. In all honesty, he had no idea why he was helping Feng Xin. It’s not like he’d grown fondness for this constant thorn in his side, but still…Mu Qing most certainly had the resources to help, so he ought to, right? 

He softly shook his head, in hopes that it might clear it of its winding paths of thought. There was one thing Feng Xin actually had right, though Mu Qing would be loath to admit it (and in equal measure he loathed the other’s bizarre wording): his mind could twist itself into endless knots. Which were most certainly not useful when (trying) to treat a patient. A very reluctant patient, but a patient nonetheless. 

Looking back at Feng Xin, Mu Qing found a face and body frozen over in shock. Following the path of his slightly dull dark brown eyes, Mu Qing found him to be staring at the hand, Mu Qing’s own hand, that had just felt all over his forehead. Feng Xin raised a hand to his cheek, as if he simply couldn’t believe it. There was no look of relief or thankfulness on his face upon hearing that Mu Qing had (unbiddenly) designated himself as Feng Xin’s personal doctor. Rather, shock and slight anger were evident, mixing and squabbling amongst themselves over who would be more dominant in Feng Xin’s expression. Those eyebrows were furrowed to a degree Mu Qing hadn’t thought possible, and a small frown had found its home on Feng Xin’s lips. 

“What…” Feng Xin began, faltering when a fit of coughs overcame him. If Mu Qing’s imposition had done anything, then it had apparently convinced Feng Xin to drop the ‘not-sick’ charade. Mu Qing supposed that was good enough. “What are you doing this for?” 

Mu Qing, who’d been reaching out his hand to feel Feng Xin’s pulse, paused. The wording of Feng Xin’s question struck him. It was as if the other meant to imply that Mu Qing had some alternate, nefarious, purpose besides simply wanting to help. He retracted his hand slightly, but didn’t fully return it to his lap. 

Of all the negative traits Feng Xin attributed to him, a ‘constant hidden evil intent’ bothered Mu Qing above all else. Mu Qing rarely , if ever, had hidden bad intentions. It just wasn’t the person he was, to go behind the backs of those who trusted him only to craft schemes of malintent. He wasn’t the kind of person to base his ascension on the murder of a pregnant mother. He most certainly wasn’t the kind of person who’d betray Xie Lian for the former Heavenly Emperor. In fact, he wasn’t the kind of person who’d betray Xie Lian, without addendum. He’d never hope to, never (even when factoring in certain…events from centuries ago). 

And thus, he definitely wasn’t the kind of person who’d walk into the tent of his bitter rival with claims of wanting to help only to enact his secret dastardly plan. There was no dastardly plan—that was the truth, plain and simple. He wanted to help Feng Xin—that was also the truth, albeit less plain and far less simple. There must be some way he could convince Feng Xin of this. In the past, he would’ve made the choice to solve this conundrum with fists, but the past was not the present. At present, Mu Qing was operating under the knowledge that Feng Xin had put his own life on the line to save him from a death by Mu Qing’s own hand. 

That…that was worth something. To save another’s life seemed simple, but with the added weight of eight hundred bitter years as rivals, it was absolutely worth something immense to Mu Qing. He was a man of honor, or at least, he tried to be. He wouldn’t land a single bruise on the face of someone who’d done that for him, no matter how much that person tested his patience and energy. No matter how much that person thought Mu Qing was a bad person, as much as that angered and, honestly, fucking hurt Mu Qing. After all, Mu Qing wasn’t the person Feng Xin thought he was, was he? What better way to show that than trade the harsh ways of fighting with the gentle ways of healing? 

With a deep breath in, Mu Qing bent forward again. His face was once again brought dangerously close to Feng Xin’s, who still wore that look of shock-horror but didn’t recoil or slap Mu Qing’s hand away. He instead watched with a pair of wide eyes as Mu Qing brought a hand to his chest, palm and fingers laid flat to better measure Feng Xin’s breathing. 

While he sat quietly and observed Feng Xin’s pattern of inhaling and exhaling, Mu Qing figured he might as well respond to Feng Xin’s nonsense suspicion. “General, if I wanted to kill you, don’t you think this false pretense of care for your well being would be a strange way to go about it?” He didn’t bother to look up and gauge Feng Xin’s expression, choosing instead to keep his gaze trained on Feng Xin’s breathing. It was steady, though shallow. To Mu Qing, it was further confirmation that the extent of Feng Xin’s illness was nothing he couldn’t get over in a few days or so. 

In fact, Mu Qing doubted whether Feng Xin even needed him here. It would be easy for Mu Qing to slip away, perhaps prepare some medicinal broth or give Feng Xin one of the many pills he kept on his person, and leave Feng Xin be, but…something within Mu Qing resisted this simple plan of action. Wouldn’t that be a little too cold? He and Feng Xin were supposed to be getting along, after all, as Xie Lian had requested. And as they’d both silently agreed upon after surviving the battle with the former Heavenly Emperor. Surely, looking after a bedridden and altogether sorry-looking Feng Xin would be an exceptional gesture of goodwill. 

Cutting into his thoughts, Feng Xin replied to Mu Qing in a clipped tone: “I never accused you of that! Don’t make things up.” 

Upon hearing this rather harsh response, Mu Qing tightened his hand slightly (from its place, still on Feng Xin’s chest). Though he was technically correct, Feng Xin’s tone did not need to sound like that, especially since Mu Qing was trying to help him. But, oh well. Weird and rude as usual. Mu Qing didn’t have to waste time trying to make sense of Feng Xin. 

With a shrug, he shot back in a lighter tone, “It was implied. Anyway, your breathing appears stable. From my observations, it seems you only have a light cold.” Finally looking up to meet Feng Xin’s gaze, Mu Qing saw something flash within their dark brown depths. However, Feng Xin didn’t fight him on his health report—he simply nodded, exhaustion evident in his tired-eyed expression. 

Feeling a burst of that horrible sympathy, Mu Qing reached out to grasp Feng Xin’s wrist for a feel of his pulse, fingers deft and gentle. Like his breath, steady. Nothing too alarming. As quietly as he could, Mu Qing let out a breath of relief. A pulse either too erratic or too slow wouldn’t bode well. Luckily, Feng Xin’s was normal. 

“Well,” Mu Qing spoke up, slowly retracting his hand from Feng Xin’s wrist, once more tucking it neatly into his lap. “Unfortunately, I fear you’re stuck with me. See, I could retrieve medicinal plants from my heavenly garden, only, I don’t have a heavenly garden at the moment. It burned down, as you know.” He paused briefly, to make sure Feng Xin was still listening. Though the other looked dangerously close to sleep, he was indeed still conscious. His eyes were fixed on Mu Qing’s, their burning intensity too much for Mu Qing to handle. How could he conjure such an intense gaze while looking so miserable and pathetic? It didn’t seem possible. Then again, Feng Xin always looked that intense, thanks to those constantly furrowed eyebrows. 

Choosing to forfeit this apparent staring contest, Mu Qing looked down at his hands and cleared his throat before continuing. “Thus, the only form of treatment I can provide is spiritual power. Now, we’ve all been dealt heavy blows to our power stores thanks to the fall of the Heavenly Capitol, but recently, I’ve been sneaking up to the ruins of Mt. Taicang to meditate in seclusion. I’ve managed to build my spiritual power back up, and in addition, I’ve been wealthy in terms of prayers as of late.” As he finished, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He fiddled with his hands a bit longer before finally dragging his eyes away to meet Feng Xin’s.

And…they were unreadable. Feng Xin’s expression couldn’t be described as pleased, but then, angry wasn’t quite right either. If Mu Qing had to put a word to the look, then perhaps he’d use perplexed. In any case, Mu Qing didn’t know what to do with it. 

After what felt like an excruciating couple of moments, Feng Xin finally responded. “What?” was, surprisingly, the first thing he said. Mu Qing felt confused. “What exactly do you mean by—” but Mu Qing didn’t get the chance to finish his question as Feng Xin swiftly interrupted him. 

“You want to help me? Well, no thanks,” he snapped. Mu Qing drew back a bit, surprised and a bit offended. Feng Xin leaned forward, face contorted into a strange look of anger. Strange because to Mu Qing, it almost looked like Feng Xin was the one who’d taken offense. Regarding what, Mu Qing had absolutely no idea. 

Feng Xin tried to speak again, but his voice was drowned out in another fit of coughing. This time, Mu Qing was almost glad for it. When he’d recovered his voice again, Feng Xin spoke in a raspy, harsh voice: “Look. I know Dianxia put you up to this. That’s the only reason you’d ever come in here, spouting that nonsense about ‘wanting to help me.’ I just…” he paused in the midst of his heated rant, eyes flitting this way and that, as if he were trying to search for the right words. In the end he took a deep breath in, calming his tone somewhat before continuing. “I don’t need this. I don’t need you pretending you give a shit about me. I’d rather succumb to this fucking illness than be treated by someone who doesn’t…doesn’t…” his voice began to falter. “ Care ,” he finished, spittle flying from his mouth. 

Mu Qing sat in the chair for what felt like an entire shichen, frozen. So that’s what Feng Xin was upset about? What utter nonsense! As embarrassing and confusing as it was, it certainly was not false: he did, for whatever reason, care. He bunched up the black fabric covering his lap with balled fists, feeling a profound urge to turn around and leave Feng Xin to look after himself. If his goodwill was to be taken for a donkey’s liver once again, he needn’t stick around to let it happen!

With no heed whatsoever, he stood up quickly and kicked the chair beneath him to the side. For a moment, all Mu Qing could do was stare down at the sweat-soaked Feng Xin, not knowing how to even respond. He just stood there, lips pressed into a firm line, eyes wide in disbelief. 

Eventually, he was able to force out a terse, “Fine.” He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, took a step back, then took that same step forward. He was so annoyed; he wanted to scream at Feng Xin until his head ached and his voice grew hoarse. But…Mu Qing wouldn’t. Excessive yelling wouldn’t be good on Feng Xin’s ears, or his sore throat. What he needed was a doctor, and an influx in fresh spiritual power. He could probably do with some hot broth and honey as well, but the spiritual power was the most important. Mu Qing huffed, exceedingly irked by his continuous and stubborn commitment to being sympathetic. 

Sympathetic as he might’ve been, though, he was not going to spend another minute in this stuffy tent with a man who’d evidently taken his good intentions for a pile of shit. He’d find another doctor, if he bothered. With a swirl of his long black robes, Mu Qing strode toward the front of the tent, lifting the flap and taking a single step more before pausing. Feng Xin hadn’t said another word, he hadn’t even made a noise. From the look Mu Qing had gotten of his face before whirling around and stalking off, Feng Xin had looked a bit angry but mostly confused. It was that look that caused Mu Qing to pause. What exactly did Feng Xin have to be confused about? He’d bluntly told Mu Qing to leave, and Mu Qing was going to do just that. 

Following a strange urge, Mu Qing turned back around, once again face-to-face with a foggy-eyed Feng Xin. He opened his mouth, then closed it, admittedly unsure of what he was still doing here. He couldn’t leave without saying anything, could he? Eventually, after a bit of thought, he said in a harsh tone, “As I’ve repeated over and over, it’s just a fucking cold, so there will not be any ‘succumbing.’ Also, just so you know since you’ve been apparently misinformed, I was not sent by Xie Lian. I came here of my own accord, but you’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t want me here, so fine. I’ll leave.” Feeling satisfied, Mu Qing turned back around and placed his hand on the tent’s flap. 

However, he still didn’t leave the tent. This time, he’d been halted by a weak, raspy voice telling him to “Wait,” and, after a pause, “Stop.” The voice, of course, belonged to Feng Xin. 

Every rational and coherent thought in Mu Qing’s mind were all telling him to do anything but “wait” and “stop,” but at that moment, Mu Qing must not have been listening to the better part of his mind. His curiosity, the cursed thing, had flared and although his thoughts told him what he should do, his body moved without his consent and before he knew it he’d turned all the way back around. He was, once again, facing Feng Xin. 

The pathetic man’s expression had melted completely into confusion. His eyes were cloudy, and his face was slightly scrunched up as if he were in some amount of pain. Mu Qing crossed his arms, maintaining his position near the tent’s entrance. He kept his expression at a chilling neutral and stayed silent, waiting for Feng Xin to speak again. Hopefully, the twinge of sympathy he’d felt at Feng Xin’s pitiful plight was not evident whatsoever on the surface. 

“I…” Feng Xin began, but he didn’t get very far before trailing off into silence. Mu Qing tapped a finger on his shoulder, giving the impression of impatience. He wanted Feng Xin to stay on edge, to think that Mu Qing would leave at any moment, so that he’d feel a sense of urgency and tell Mu Qing whatever it was he was holding back. Otherwise, who knew if Feng Xin might give up on account of that the fact that speaking—or, rather, not yelling —at each other was apparently extremely fucking difficult. 

Feng Xin closed his eyes, most likely trying to gather what he could of his bearings. He took in a long, deep breath, before attempting to speak again. “I’m…sorry,” he murmured, his voice unusually gruff thanks to its sore state. Mu Qing’s cool composure snapped for just a moment, his expression twitching ever so slightly when he heard those two words– “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t the apology itself that had shocked him, rather, a combination of it and the one who’d spoken it. Feng Xin, apologizing to Mu Qing ? It was utterly inconceivable. Mu Qing didn’t want his surprise to leak through his indifferent expression too much, but he really couldn’t help it. He stayed quiet, hoping his silence would give Feng Xin the strength to continue. 

“Truly, I didn’t mean to snap,” Feng Xin continued, casting his eyes down at his fiddling hands. “I’m just really not feeling well today, and I…I didn’t know that it had been your own will to come here, and I really shouldn’t have said what I said.” He finished, for the time being, and finally looked up to meet Mu Qing’s gaze, eyes gleaming with the dim, dancing candlelight of the tent. 

Mu Qing stood there, frozen. He had no idea what to say—what should he say? How many times had Mu Qing received an apology from Feng Xin over the eight centuries the two had known each other? Mu Qing knew the answer as well as he knew his own name: never . He’d always longed for something like this; some sort of admittance of wrongdoing on Feng Xin’s part, for all the times he’d misconstrued Mu Qing as some twisted villain with hidden malintent. Now that Mu Qing had finally received an apology, he honestly didn’t know what to do with it. 

One thing he knew for certain, however: he was not going to leave this tent. A genuine apology was a rare thing, and Mu Qing could tell this one was genuine. It was small, and hesitant, but it was real. And so, with a swish of his long sleeves, Mu Qing’s mud-encrusted boots crossed the length of the tent back toward where he’d been before, next to Feng Xin’s bed. He pulled the chair close once more, and took his seat. 

He didn’t give his response immediately. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Feng Xin with a clear gaze, one that didn’t give away any of what he felt inside. 

Finally, Mu Qing said in a quiet, teasing voice, “You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” After a moment, he added, “It’s really not good to yell at your doctor, you know.” 

Feng Xin’s eyes had been wide, in fearful expectation of what would come after his apology. Now, his tired face relaxed into something more humorous. “Is that what you are now?” he asked, shifting his neck so that his head was angled more toward Mu Qing. The subtle shift in position nearly brought a smile to Mu Qing’s lips. They’d been snapping at each other not even an incense time prior, but all it took was one simple apology for them to act something approaching friendly with one another. One simple, sincere apology. Mu Qing could stew in bitterness over Feng Xin’s earlier harsh words all he wanted, but it wouldn’t do a thing to ease the centuries worth of toxicity the two had brewed between each other. An apology, however? Well, Mu Qing thought that might be a step in the right direction. Besides, Feng Xin simply looked too pathetic for Mu Qing to turn an indifferent back to him. 

“Well, I’d say so. Wouldn’t you?” Mu Qing responded, placing an exceedingly gentle hand onto Feng Xin’s forehead to check for a fever. Still as hot as it was before , Mu Qing noted to himself. Feng Xin needed spiritual power, and he needed it now . Mu Qing took back his hand, shaking out his sleeves and fixing Feng Xin with a contemplative gaze. 

Feng Xin didn’t respond, but his eyes seemed to glitter with traces of gaiety they hadn’t had before. The sight of it invoked a strange, warm feeling within Mu Qing, and he had to look away. He took in a deep breath and felt for his own pulse, trying to gauge his stores of spiritual power. As expected, he had more than enough flowing through his body, thanks to the trips he’d taken to secluded areas of Mt Taicang. More than enough to abate Feng Xin’s minor illness, though, since Mu Qing had only just now caught it, the treatment would take a couple days. 

He relayed this information to Feng Xin in a gentle voice, in part because that was Mu Qing’s usual timbre, but also because of Feng Xin’s condition. It’d be better on his mind and body if Mu Qing softened his tone, akin to the hum of a light rain. Softening his tone, though, did not entail softening his words. 

“Admittedly, those idiotic accusations you hurled at me earlier confound me,” he spoke as he moved, slowly bringing up a hand to meet Feng Xin’s. Not to hold the other’s hand, of course, but to bring their palms together for the spiritual power transfer. It was a simple contract in which Mu Qing would pull from his own stores and transfer power to the weakened Feng Xin. With time, the influx in spiritual energy would stimulate Feng Xin’s stronger-than-normal immune system, and the sickness would be targeted and disposed of. This process naturally meant that Mu Qing would have to either come back to Feng Xin’s tent the next day, or stay overnight. Mu Qing had no trouble admitting that he was not generous enough to stay overnight, but to come back the next day…he’d just have to see. Check with tomorrow’s schedule, his tasks, his junior officials, and such. 

In terms of the transfer, Mu Qing was not stingy. He gave generously, and continued his earlier line of questioning. “Why did you assume Xie Lian sent me?” He took care to put emphasis on the ‘assume.’ 

Feng Xin’s eyebrows furrowed at Mu Qing’s casual usage of Xie Lian’s name, but he didn’t comment on it. He eyed their touched palms, uncertainty evident in his gaze, though he didn’t move his hand away. Which was a very good thing, otherwise his dumb embarrassment over physical touch would’ve gotten in the way of Mu Qing’s plans to help him. Feng Xin was the type to become easily flustered, especially over touch, even the slightest brush of limbs; unless of course that touch was punching Mu Qing in the jaw. Now that the scars of their age-old blows were beginning to heal, Mu Qing almost thought the habit endearing. 

“Well, would it be natural to assume you’d help me of your own will?” Feng Xin, annoyingly , answered Mu Qing’s question with another question. Mu Qing gave a half-hearted shrug in response, hoping, despite the man’s unique ability to get on every last one of Mu Qing’s nerves, that Feng Xin would continue. 

With his eyes still trained on their point of contact, Feng Xin went on (much to Mu Qing’s…well, he’d never say delight, but perhaps satisfaction). “Now, this may be difficult for you, but try to give me the benefit of the doubt, yeah? I’m well on my way to delirium thanks to this fucking fever, my body aches and sores all over—” in a rather perfect turn of events, his tale of woe was cut off by a fit of violent coughing. The sound of it was a terrible assault on the ears—clearly, Feng Xin’s condition wasn’t getting any better. 

Mu Qing’s expression, which had been kept under careful control, twitched and his eyebrows knitted with worry. Before he could hide the sympathy escaping through his traitorous eyebrows, Feng Xin unfortunately saw. At what point he’d stopped looking at their hands and started looking at Mu Qing’s face; Mu Qing had no idea. But in response, Mu Qing didn’t receive the usual mockery or disbelief from Feng Xin that he’d ever express something like sympathy. Instead, Feng Xin glanced back down at their touched palms and muttered a soft, “I’m fine.”

Certainly not what Mu Qing had expected to hear. One corner of Mu Qing’s lips turned up in the ghost of a smile. Feng Xin’s stunning commitment to denying his obviously less-than-“fine” state while simultaneously hyperbolizing it in the same breath was utterly exasperating. In equal measure, though, it was quite hilarious. 

“Now, there’s no need for that. We’re both well aware that you are not ‘fine.’ Or perhaps that blazing, practically delirium-inducing fever you were talking about earlier is lying to me,” Mu Qing replied, tone light and teasing. It surprised him—were they actually teasing each other now? Mu Qing supposed they were. He was getting quite comfortable with it, in fact. Feng Xin was actually, surprisingly, decent to converse with when he wasn’t being a fool or yelling at Mu Qing. “Now, please, tell me more about this ‘benefit of the doubt’ I’m supposed to be giving you,” he continued, prompting Feng Xin, who shifted slightly in his bed to make his hand more accessible to Mu Qing’s. This made it exceedingly difficult for Mu Qing to not curl his fingers, ever so slightly, around the other’s. In some abstract justification, Mu Qing told himself that it’d be easier to administer the spiritual power that way. 

“Right, right,” Feng Xin nodded, voice still hoarse but sounding a little more lighthearted at least. “Well, I’m not feeling well, as you know. And so I…in my hazy state of mind, I…” he trailed off, seeming to be at a loss for words. Or perhaps embarrassment had scared them off his tongue. A moment later, though, he seemed to find them again: “I thought you’d been sent by Dianxia, because I couldn’t accept that you would come of your own will. Hey, I know you have opinions on that, but let me finish, will you?” Feng Xin caught Mu Qing’s immediate reaction before he could even give it, leaving Mu Qing speechless. Taking advantage of the silence, Feng Xin took his own initiative and continued: “I snapped at you earlier because…well, because I assumed that if Dianxia had sent you, then that meant you didn’t really want to be here. I know there must be a thousand other things General Xuan Zhen deems more important than treating my minor ailment, so I…”

“Didn’t want me here if I didn’t really care, right?” Mu Qing interrupted, having guessed it partway through Feng Xin’s hesitant explanation. He thought it utterly ridiculous, of course, but he chose not to heckle Feng Xin for it. As dumb as it was to turn away a trained professional based on an assumption of indifference, it was…somewhat sweet. It felt grossly foreign to use such a word for Feng Xin of all people, but Mu Qing couldn’t hold back that he really did think it sweet, at least in some part. 

“Something like that. I didn’t want to burden you.” Feng Xin’s response sounded only half sarcastic. He traced patterns on the hard cover of his book with the hand not currently being held—or, well, he shouldn’t say held, but touched—by Mu Qing’s. 

To his complete shock, and certainly not with his prior say-so, Mu Qing laughed out loud at Feng Xin’s reply. His next words were spoken in a voice that seemed to completely discard his thus far carefully-kept mask of indifference, exchanging it with genuine joviality. “That seems to be a simple misunderstanding of my character. If I thought you to be a burden, I wouldn’t have come here at all. Because you are correct about one thing—there are a thousand other things I could be doing.” He paused briefly, before adding, “Do you seriously think I’d rather be filing reports right now? Also, someone has to take care of you. You’re far too stubborn to bother the doctors in the medical wing.”

Feng Xin’s eyes widened at the ‘take care of you.’ Mu Qing felt a twinge of worry. Had it been too much? Perhaps he shouldn’t have said it like that. He was about to make an addendum when Feng Xin spoke first, and surprisingly, made no comment on Mu Qing’s word choice. “In any case, I assumed wrong. I’m sorry.” Mu Qing was struck by this second apology. He looked at Feng Xin, who was actually looking back at him as well, gaze wide and clear. This apology was as simple and sincere as the first, though, this time, there was no hesitance or trepidation.

Mu Qing was at a loss for words. One apology was already a lot, but two? Was this really Feng Xin he was with? Mu Qing hadn’t taken the time to realize just how much the two had changed. Or maybe Feng Xin was always like this, but for the first time, he was showing this side of himself to Mu Qing. The side that teased, the side that laid inner feelings bare in front of Mu Qing like wet clothes left to dry in the sun, the side that didn’t hide behind angry words—or, at least, the side that apologized for hiding behind angry words. The side that allowed Mu Qing to join their palms in a gentle, healing embrace. The side that Xie Lian always got to see without qualm, but Mu Qing was never privy to. 

It was like Feng Xin’s internal world had been shuttered and closed off from Mu Qing before, but now, finally, those shutters were beginning to open for him. Mu Qing felt strangely happy about this development, but at the same time, it was incredibly overwhelming. 

“Enough of that,” Mu Qing responded after what felt like hours, in a playfully sharp tone. “There’s been too many ‘sorry’s. I’ll take one but no more. Doctor’s orders.” 

In a turn of events even more unexpected than, well, anything else that had occurred since Feng Xin’s initial apology, Feng Xin actually laughed . The sound was rough and raspy due to his sore throat, and it was loud and uncontrolled, echoing around the small space. Though it was harsh on his ears, Mu Qing didn’t care. He had actually caused Feng Xin to laugh—how rare was that? Mu Qing was sure it had never happened before. He shouldn’t be so hung up on it, but it was extraordinary, wasn’t it? For a moment, he was content to just simply sit with that laugh, and the joy it left in its wake. He could almost convince himself that nothing before this moment, in the small space they were both sharing, mattered anymore. This could be the beginning of something new, something better. Maybe.

Eventually Feng Xin’s laughter died down, leaving Mu Qing actually wanting more. It had been strange, and unexpected, and most likely not good on Feng Xin’s poor throat, but it had been immeasurably pleasant. Mu Qing had never had the privilege of being the cause of such unrestrained mirth in Feng Xin. He realized that he liked it. He liked it very much. 

For a few minutes, the two sat in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, but a contented one. Feng Xin sat back in his bed with his head resting on his stiff pillow, and, whether consciously or unconsciously, curled his fingers around Mu Qing’s, as Mu Qing had done only a little bit ago. He sucked in a quiet breath but otherwise acted as if he hadn’t noticed. Truly, what was happening to them? Mu Qing softly shook his head. He didn’t know, but he didn’t want to do anything to disrupt this fragile little flame burning between them. 

After some time, Feng Xin spoke up again, voice still rough but sounding a lot better than it had that morning at the meeting. “So,” was all he said, at first. As vague as this non-statement had been, his eyes were certainly not: they were pointed directly at the pair’s joined hands. Mu Qing raised an eyebrow, refusing to speak. “Touched palms, huh?” Mu Qing raised his eyes to meet the other’s. Feng Xin may have asked a question, but he didn’t look confused. Rather, there was a teasing glint in his eye, like he was telling some inappropriate joke. 

Mu Qing’s gaze flitted down to their hands for a brief moment, where he was still administering spiritual power to the deprived Feng Xin in generous doses. He then looked back up at Feng Xin, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his options for a response. He could dismiss Feng Xin’s query outright and, in doing so, shut down any future discussions about the placement of their hands. But…something about Feng Xin’s deeply unserious question made Mu Qing want to play along. Something about his tone, which, in its playfulness and teasing nature, sounded so unlike Feng Xin. Mu Qing wasn’t sure exactly when or how this side of Feng Xin had uncovered itself, but just in case it wouldn’t be here for long, he really wanted to revel in it as much as he could for however long he had it. 

Thus, with the hint of a smile playing at his tinted lips, he replied in a softer tone, “Mm hmm. Or, what did you want instead?” A teasing glint lit the obsidian depths of his eyes. He leaned forward, violating a fair bit of Feng Xin’s personal space. Definitely not proper conduct with a sick patient, but they, as immortal beings living far past any mortal’s allotted time on this earth, would be fine. Feng Xin eyed him with a look that hadn’t lost any of its earlier mirth, but his breath seemed a tad less steady. 

Mu Qing took in a measured breath before saying, “Did you want me to treat you like Xie Lian gets treated by his crimson ghost? Deliver you spiritual power like they do? It’d certainly be more efficient, I’ll give you that.” He blinked slowly, ghost-smile deepening by a hair. By this point, Feng Xin’s composure had faltered a fair bit. His eyes had gone wider, much wider than they’d been before, which presented Mu Qing with an excellent opportunity to examine their condition. Tired, thanks to the illness, slightly dull, but their pools of dark brown still retained their color as well as they ever had. Their color…Mu Qing leaned forward a bit more to examine in closer detail. Quite good…much better than Mu Qing had ever realized. Or maybe he had realized it, known it on some innate level, but how much time would one realistically have to admire another’s beauty whilst in the throes of a vicious brawl? Maybe that’s why their color was striking Mu Qing now. Deep brown, like the wood of a fine oak. Beautiful; utterly captivating. 

This man…was terribly easy to like, when he wasn’t snapping or hurling baseless insults. 

Mu Qing blinked and leaned back again, raising his voice to break the rather intense moment with another quip, voice drenched in sarcasm. “I can’t do that though, unfortunately. First of all, it would be far too improper to administer the power that way, being your doctor. And, second of all, I would rather not be anywhere near you dry, cracked, sick-stained lips.” His words may not have been nice, but they were very clearly of a teasing nature. None of his words or accusations of Feng Xin’s intentions had been even remotely serious, but Feng Xin seemed to be quite a bit taken aback. The wide-eyed, shocked look on his face brought Mu Qing much joy to witness. 

And, on a pleasant note, based on the close look Mu Qing had just gotten of Feng Xin, he seemed to be doing much better. Still clammy and warm, but his coughing had died down quite a bit, and he didn’t seem as miserable as he had been when Mu Qing first entered the tent. Evidently, the influx in spiritual power was taking its toll. Just a day more, at most, and Feng Xin would be over this bout of minor illness. Coming back tomorrow might be a necessity, but how long had Mu Qing stayed already? He probably should’ve gone back to his tent ages ago. Besides, he was most likely depriving Feng Xin of some much needed rest. Healthy doses of spiritual power were fine, but too much wouldn’t be good for him. 

Even so, Mu Qing was reluctant to part with the tent, and Feng Xin. He was…well…oh, surely he wasn’t too prideful to admit it: he was having too much fun. He and Feng Xin were getting along too well, much better than they should’ve. What if Feng Xin only acted this way while sick? What if, when Mu Qing finished treating him, they went back to how it was before? How it had been for the past eight hundred years? Mu Qing really didn’t want them to go back to that. They’d been stewing in hatred of each other and themselves for so long, not because they wanted to, but because they hadn’t any other option. At least, none that the two would have agreed to take.

Now, though, they were different. Changed. Mu Qing wasn’t steeped in bitterness anymore, and in its absence, indifference had not made its home. Rather, he wanted to understand Feng Xin. He wanted to know him, like he never had but always in some amount wanted to. Would this new energy between the two die as soon as it had come to life? 

Mu Qing’s gaze had grown a far-off look while his mind took him to strange, distant shores of thought, and he shook his head as he brought himself back to the present. Feng Xin still looked put out by Mu Qing’s earlier comments. His brows furrowed a bit, not in a manner that suggested serious anger, but rather, in a way that suggested embarrassment. Mu Qing’s near-smile grew even deeper. Feng Xin seemed to be having a hard time grappling with what Mu Qing had just said. Well, perhaps it was too cruel to leave the fish flopping helplessly on the deck like this. Mu Qing cleared his throat and spoke up, “Aren’t I correct? What do you think?”

Feng Xin blinked, looking over at Mu Qing with a lost look in his eyes. It honestly took all of Mu Qing’s internal strength to not burst out in laughter. Feng Xin opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it and looked away, very clearly in deep thought. After a short while he opened it again, and said in a low voice, “You are certainly not.” He pursed his lips afterward and cleared his throat, face positioned in Mu Qing’s direction yet refusing to look at Mu Qing directly. Some tense silence followed, and then, Feng Xin attempted to speak again: “ Dianxia and Crimson Rain…” he placed emphasis on ‘Dianxia,’ as if that would compel Mu Qing to use Xie Lian’s proper title. Mu Qing rolled his eyes. Not seeming to notice or otherwise not caring to react, Feng Xin  chewed the skin on his bottom lip, ultimately deciding that his previous start had not been correct as he began again. “We…” he ended up trailing off again, however, unable to finish whatever it was he was trying to say. 

Clearing his throat, Feng Xin decided to say instead, “ Ahem …that’s all I have to say. Don’t say anything else improper.” He fixed Mu Qing with a stern look, one eyebrow slightly raised in faux reproach. Mu Qing wasn’t going to laugh, not at first. But as seconds ticked by his attempts to stifle it grew increasingly futile; soon, it came out of his mouth in bouts louder than he ever would have intended. He couldn’t help it, though—they were both acting too ridiculous. 

Mu Qing couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so heartily; certainly, he had not been with Feng Xin. Perhaps he had been with his mother, or Xie Lian. Although, Mu Qing would never have allowed himself to laugh with such vigor in front of his crown prince—not if he could help it, at least. Despite his stubborn commitment to being exceedingly kind, Xie Lian also had a very quick wit. Oftentimes it crept up out of nowhere when one least expected it, and more than once, it had sent Mu Qing dangerously close to breaking the icy lake of indifference he preferred to don on his face when presenting to others. 

But, even when that lake had broken with escaped laughter, Mu Qing didn’t remember it carrying as much mirth as it did now. As infectious as Xie Lian’s humor and personality could be, Mu Qing’s relationship with him always carried the heavy context of social class. Even now, when both understood the truth of their shared affection despite age-old grievances and pent-up feelings, there was still plenty to work through. And…things were emotional. Mu Qing had confessed to Xie Lian a deep, vulnerable truth he thought he’d have to keep buried in his heart for another eight hundred years. They were finally friends again. Friends, by itself, with nothing to hold them back or weigh them down. It was a lot to process, for the both of them—there wasn’t much time for laughter. 

All this to say, the first person who’d wrestled a laugh out of Mu Qing, a genuine laugh, with not a trace or flavor of sarcasm, was Feng Xin, the same man who Mu Qing had previously been locked in a seemingly eternal feud with. Dumb, nagging, annoying, rude, angry, careless Feng Xin. Mu Qing had laughed earlier, but the one he’d just let out of his increasingly fragile control was different. The pure joy he felt, at Feng Xin’s ridiculous and wonderfully familiar embarrassment as well as his own crass remarks were too much to keep trapped within. He had pride as plentiful as the sea was deep—yet not even it had been enough to restrain the elation slowly building within. 

It was funny—those descriptors Mu Qing had effortlessly ascribed to Feng Xin earlier; dumb, nagging, annoying, and so on—they didn’t pack the punch they once did. Certainly, Feng Xin was and had been all of those things and more, but Mu Qing wasn’t so hung up on the past anymore. Not like he’d once been. Because, as it turns out, Feng Xin could also be sweet, funny, and surprisingly, friendly. Those negative things might’ve all been true, but maybe they didn’t matter to Mu Qing as much as they once did. 

Bringing himself back to the present, Mu Qing noticed that, at some point, a smile had crept onto Feng Xin’s face. Mu Qing had been too lost in his thoughts to notice when it had first appeared, but perhaps, it had come as a result of his uncontrolled bout of laughter. It was a nice thought; a very nice thought. 

Although, the more Mu Qing observed, the more he thought there was something off about Feng Xin’s expression. It was relaxed, and happy, free of any worried crease and, in a shocking turn of events, his eyebrows had miraculously lost their perpetual furrow. But still, something about it made Mu Qing feel strange…how long had the other’s gaze been on him? It seemed…more intense than usual? More focused. Bizarrely, that piercing gaze felt like, in that moment, it saw nothing but Mu Qing. It made Mu Qing squirm, though not from discomfort. 

Eventually it got to be too much and Mu Qing had to look away. He looked down at the hand not being used to deliver spiritual power; watching it bunch up and release the black fabric of his outer robe. 

After the silence between them had stretched on too long, Mu Qing cleared his throat and spoke up, voice sounding lower and more awkward than it had before. “You know, I’m fairly sure that’s the first time you’ve ever apologized to me.” He bunched and released the fabric covering his lap one last time before raising his eyes to meet those of Feng Xin. 

The other was still looking at him, though this time, a brow was raised. Disbelief was written clear across Feng Xin’s face. Mu Qing crossed one leg over the other, silently beckoning Feng Xin to challenge his bold claim. Bold as it was, it was absolutely true! If anyone would know, it’d be Mu Qing. And if anyone would n’t know, it’d be Feng Xin. 

Still, though, Feng Xin voiced his doubt: “That can’t be true! I bet that isn’t true. There had to have been times before this….” He trailed off, the teeth nibbling at his bottom lip a clear indication that he was deep in thought. Mu Qing said nothing, part of his mouth hooking upwards in a prideful grin. He waited patiently for Feng Xin to sigh and claim defeat. 

In a stubborn refusal to give in, Feng Xin continued to wrack his brain. Every so often, a hopeful look would grace his fine features and he’d brighten up with a, “What about that one time when we…?” But inevitably, each time he’d trail off in defeat as he remembered the particular incident and how it had not , in fact, resulted in an apology. 

And so, when that hopeful look came back indicating that he’d had another idea, Mu Qing’s smug expression did not falter. When Feng Xin raised his voice to speak, though, Mu Qing’s expectations were completely shattered. 

“Remember that time eight hundred years ago, when we were both still mortal? It was before the Yong’an rebellion, back when things were…uh…simpler.”

Mu Qing raised an eyebrow. Shattered as his expectations may have been, he was not going to relent his position that easily. “How can I be sure you’re not making this up to fool me? You should know by now that it’s near impossible to fool me.” 

Feng Xin shook his head. “You–! I know that. Your mind’s too convoluted and twisted to fool.” Mu Qing wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment, or an insult. Perhaps it was both folded into one? Either way, Feng Xin seemed committed to whatever ‘incident’ he was trying to recall. “I didn’t make this up, you should remember it well enough. We, as in you and me and Taizi Dianxia, had just returned from the Shangyuan Heavenly Ceremonial Procession. You know, the one you had messed up by being weird and confusing?”

Mu Qing recalled the time and place, but felt greatly offended by the last bit. “ That was absolutely not my fault! ” he hissed, brows furrowing in righteous fury. “If you’ll recall, I—”

“Whatever, whatever! It doesn’t matter anymore, that’s not the point,” Feng Xin interrupted, barreling ahead, giving Mu Qing no time to defend himself. Mu Qing huffed but otherwise stayed quiet. “Dianxia lost one of his earrings, those, uh…I think they were…”

“His red coral pearl earrings?” Mu Qing interjected, growing impatient. “I’m biting my nails with anticipation for you to get to the point.” 

Feng Xin didn’t react to the quip, only nodding at Mu Qing’s clarification on the earrings. “Yeah, those! Well, I guess I had accidentally accused you of stealing one of them, even though I really wasn’t and you were vastly overthinking things, as usual…” he stopped that rant in its path, wayward from the point he was trying to make. “Anyway, I apologized for that. I’ll give you a minute to recall, if you need.” He repositioned slightly in his bed, hooking his unoccupied arm behind his head. Clearly, he thought it was his turn to be smug. 

However, even if the two were equals in terms of martial skill, one category in which Mu Qing far outranked Feng Xin was recollection. Feng Xin could barely remember what he’d had for breakfast even a day back, there was no way he could recall with accuracy something that had happened over eight hundred years ago. Mu Qing, though, was prepared. His memory was vast and extraordinarily specific. Thus, with certainty and confidence he replied with, “No, you didn’t.” 

Feng Xin tipped his head to one side in confusion. “But, didn’t I…? I clearly did! You—”

Mu Qing swiftly cut him off. “No. You said, ‘What happened before was my fault!’ and, I believe, ‘I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything’  but no actual apology.” He sat back in his chair, feeling particularly proud of himself. He made sure to ridiculously over exaggerate his impression of Feng Xin, taking delight in the furrowed eyebrows he received in response. Thinking on it briefly, he decided to add for generously granted fairness, “Not technically, anyway. And I seem to remember your tone being quite rude; truly nothing like a proper apology. Really, Feng Xin, you should know better than to challenge me on these sorts of things.” 

Feng Xin stared at him with a wide-eyed look, shock evident in his expression, overriding any indignation from being proved wrong. For a few moments, he seemed unable to conjure any words. He blinked a few times, fixing Mu Qing with a strange look as he finally said, “Have I ever told you how disturbing your memory is? Fuck….” He trailed off, shaking his head in defeat. Though his tone was one of disturbed disbelief, he ended up chuckling a bit to himself. He lay his head down, looking up at the small tent ceiling. 

Mu Qing made sure to save his amused smile for the moment Feng Xin looked away. The silence dragged on, and with it came the reminder that Mu Qing needed to be getting back to his own tent. His smile faded as he looked down at his dirty black boot, hitting his heel against one of the chair’s legs over and over. For some reason, there was a feeling of hesitance within him. He knew he ought to get out of the chair and leave, but well, the thing was, he didn’t want to. He was actually enjoying his time with Feng Xin, and he really didn’t want the first pleasant conversation they’d had in centuries to come to an end. 

Slowly dragging his head back up, he looked at Feng Xin. The bedridden man’s eyes were lively but still, dragged down from exhaustion. His voice had gotten much better but still there was evidence of a sore throat. His coughing had all but disappeared, but that didn’t mean his illness was gone. Mu Qing leaned forward, extending one hand to gently feel Feng Xin’s forehead. 

Surprised by the sudden touch, Feng Xin jumped slightly, and moved his head and gaze back to look at Mu Qing. Feeling around, Mu Qing determined that the fever had yet to break, though it had vastly improved from this morning. He caught Feng Xin’s gaze and for a moment the two stared at one another, deep brown eyes gazing into obsidian depths. Feng Xin’s eyes were exceedingly soft and open wide, showing off their oak-brown color. Mu Qing stared for another few seconds, seconds that felt more like hours, before he had to make himself look away, lest he never be able to.

Clearing his throat, he announced, “ Ahem …I need to go.”

Feng Xin’s expression dimmed, seeming less lively than it had a moment ago. “Oh,” was all he said in response. 

Deciding to clarify, Mu Qing said, “After the fresh and healthy intake of spiritual power, you’ll need time to rest before your next dosage. And I…should be getting back to my own tent.” His voice was awkward, and his words lacked confidence. He didn’t want to leave but…he couldn’t stay the whole night, could he? 

Feng Xin didn’t say anything to this, only grunting in agreement. Based on his countenance, it didn’t seem like Feng Xin was overly happy to see Mu Qing go. Perhaps he was overthinking things, but could it be possible that Feng Xin was enjoying their time together as much as he was? Mu Qing couldn’t be sure, but based on the way the other had noticeably wilted, it seemed like it could be so. Despite the feeling of regret brought with parting, the thought that their time together had been mutually enjoyed brought warmth to Mu Qing’s heart. Mu Qing very briefly squeezed Feng Xin’s hand, hoping he’d been too quick for the other to notice, and severed their connection of spiritual power. Feng Xin’s hand remained open for a few seconds after that, as if Mu Qing might come back to reclaim it. His eyes were cast down, shying away from Mu Qing’s. 

Slowly, regretfully, Mu Qing rose from the chair and lightly pushed it aside. He walked to the tent’s entrance without a glance behind him, taking the flap in hand, before pausing. Looking outside, he could see that twilight had descended on the Heavenly Encampment. Nighttime already…Mu Qing had absolutely stayed too long in Feng Xin’s tent. None of his officials had contacted him through his communication array with urgent news, but still, how much had he missed? Though, despite this, Mu Qing knew there wasn’t any other way he would’ve wanted the day to go. He felt as though he could miss a hundred urgent reports if it meant spending another day like this, with Feng Xin. 

Unexpectedly, though, Mu Qing was stopped before he could take another step further, into the cold and wet outside, by Feng Xin telling him in a quiet voice: “Wait.” Immediately, Mu Qing stopped and turned around, almost like he had been looking for a reason to; a reason not to go. 

“I..uh…” Feng Xin started, then paused, uncertainty clear in his voice and expression. He took a deep breath in, before beginning again: “Ruoye. Dianxia’s—uh—white silk band, thing. Thank you for mending it.” Though Mu Qing was staring at him intently, Feng Xin still refused to raise his eyes to meet that gaze. 

Mu Qing nodded without giving any verbal response. He didn’t know where Feng Xin was going with this. Why bring up Xie Lian’s little silk band now? What relevance did it have to Feng Xin? Mu Qing still didn’t leave, though. Somehow, he knew Feng Xin had more to say, despite his sudden bout of shyness. 

Feng Xin closed his eyes, then opened them again, clearly struggling to find the right words. “When I called for you, to mend it…” his voice was quiet, and his hand twiddled with a loose string on one of his shirtsleeves. “It’s not because, you know, you used to be a servant or anything…I-I wasn’t trying to, uh, remind you of ‘your place’ or whatever. That doesn’t really matter to me—well, not anymore. I called for you because…” he paused, eventually trailing off into the silence of hesitance and uncertainty. 

Mu Qing still didn’t take a step, though. He could tell that there was something Feng Xin desperately wanted to communicate to him, but he just couldn’t find the words. Mu Qing knew that he was willing to wait all night until Feng Xin found them. 

Eventually, with a shaky inhale and exhale that came out more as a sigh, Feng Xin continued. “Because back then, I mean, way back then, eight hundred years ago, there was this indigo brocade robe I loved very dearly. One day, I can’t remember, maybe during training or something, I tore it. Right along the seam connecting the shoulder to the torso. Well, Dianxia insisted I hand it over to you, since he lauded your skills with sewing as ‘practically divine work.’ I was skeptical, and you were as much of a shit about it as always, but you still took it.” He paused to take in a breath. Although he began quiet, once he got going with the tale, his voice got steadier and more confident. Clearly feeling more comfortable, he was able to smoothly continue on. “I assumed you were going to throw it out, or rip it apart even more, but when I got it back, I was confused. I thought it must be a replacement, but it wasn’t—your skills in sewing were so adept that the tear was completely gone. Just…disappeared. Like it had never even been there. I couldn’t find a trace of it.

“So, that’s why I…called for you. You’re good. That’s it.”

He stopped, finally looking up to meet Mu Qing’s obsidian gaze. As if to emphasize his point further, he went on with, “It was just because you’re really, really good. And I knew Dianxia wouldn’t have called on you directly, so I. I did.”

Mu Qing was…surprised. And, somewhat, touched. He still wasn’t sure what the point of all this was, but it was nice to hear Feng Xin praise him so genuinely, even if it was just for his sewing skills. That’s something Mu Qing had come to know about Feng Xin—that when he praised others, it wasn’t with bitterness or jealousy, but genuine awe. Now, Mu Qing was confident enough in his own ability to not rely on the praise of others, but still. To have that kind of true admiration turned on him felt…well, good. Really, really good. Fucking great. He even felt his cheeks start to heat up a bit, though that must’ve just been the warmth of the tent. 

In response, Mu Qing simply nodded. He didn’t know what to say, he just waited. Until something came along forcing him to leave, or until Feng Xin spoke again. 

To his delight, after a long silence, Feng Xin chose to speak again. He cleared his throat softly, before saying, “I guess the point of all this is that, look. I know I’m harsh. I know I’ve been unfair these past eight hundred years. I’ve unfairly judged you and belittled you more times than I can count, and more times than I’m willing to recall.” He paused, taking in a breath and blinking up at Mu Qing, eyes glistening in the dim room, growing dimmer by the minute thanks to the dying candlelight. Was he crying, or was it just the sickness? It had to be the sickness. 

Mu Qing felt like a statue, carved stone rooted to the floor, unmovable by his own will. What had he just heard? He was still echoing and repeating those lines Feng Xin had just spoken in his head when the bastard spoke again , leaving Mu Qing absolutely no time to catch up. 

“I’ve been trying to grapple with that the past few months. I always thought I knew you, thought I knew your intentions and feelings as well as my own. After what happened at Tonglu, what I heard you say to Dianxia, I…I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I’ve never been more fucking wrong. About you, about who you are, about your character, fucking everything. Now, it was not at first and it was not easy, but I eventually came to the realization. I was wrong about you, I’ve been wrong about you, I have only ever been wrong about you.”

Feng Xin paused briefly, to breathe. He’d been talking faster and faster the more he went on, until eventually he had no more breath with which to speak. In the silence, Mu Qing was given time to process. But process he did not. How could he? How was anyone supposed to accept something like what Mu Qing had just heard? After all these years, all these centuries of being misconstrued and misunderstood, Mu Qing was finally getting catharsis and all at once it was the greatest and the worst. He wanted desperately to take Feng Xin’s words and run away with them into the night, but when he did, what would happen? Who were Feng Xin and Mu Qing supposed to be after this moment? 

Once again, Mu Qing’s racing thoughts were cut short by Feng Xin. “Look, I-I’ve been thinking about this for the past few months, ever since the battle at Tonglu. I’ve never admitted that to anyone and I never thought I’d admit it to you, but you treated me today, gave me significant amounts of your spiritual power to help fight a minor illness, all of your own volition. I…that deserves…you…that means something to me.” He paused, running a hand through his loose, sweat-soaked black hair. Mu Qing could see in his expression that he was searching for the right words, but he could also see that it was a losing battle. Feng Xin sighed, releasing his hair and letting his arm drop to the bed with a thunk.

“I-I really don’t know how to wrap this up. Just…just, please? Can you come back tomorrow? Will you? And the next day?” The question was delivered to the sick, warm air of the tent with quiet determination. Feng Xin may have fluctuated between hesitancy and confidence with his words thus far, but that final question was uttered without a trace of doubt. This, Feng Xin was sure of. 

Mu Qing remained silent. Inside, emotions raged like the waves of a stormy ocean, but he’d never been good at displaying that through his expressions, so all one could see on his face was indifference. With the inclusion of ‘and the next day,’ Mu Qing felt confident that Feng Xin was not, in fact, merely acting this way due to the sickness. These feelings were vulnerable, and hard, but true. He had so much to say, yet, he couldn’t find any of the proper words. Why was it so hard all of a sudden for Mu Qing to speak at a time when he so desperately wanted to? 

All he could think to say was, “I will.”

Then, before he left the tent with a sweep of his long black robes, he spoke into the darkness, his words carrying over to Feng Xin: “I would’ve come back even if you hadn’t asked.” It wasn’t enough, Mu Qing knew. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to all Feng Xin had confessed to him, given to him, that night. But it was a start. Mu Qing caught a glimpse of Feng Xin’s face, alight with relief and bedazzled by a brilliant smile, before stepping out into the cold rain of the dark camp. 

His robes billowed around him as the wind picked up, rattling through tree branches and buffeting tent flaps. As he walked, his boots squelched in the thick, wet mud. He expected himself to recoil with disgust at the sludge, insistent as it was in ruining a perfectly wonderful pair of boots. But, strangely, he had no room in his heart at that moment to think about his boots, or the mud, or the rain. 

At that moment, all he could think about was Feng Xin, that poor sick bastard who could curse up a storm and yell to the heavens over any minor inconvenience. He smiled. 

And so one chapter in a terrible book closed, and another, in a brand new book, a book that forgave and a book that showed enduring care at the end of it all, opened. A start. They’d always been together but for the first time in forever, there was no more separation. 

End.